


To Ribbons, To Pieces

by WaldosAkimbo



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal, Anal toys, Bookshop Sex, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Cock Ring, Dom Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, Overstimulation, Smut, Tenderness, after the apocawasn't, oh they are in love, ropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:54:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21823255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaldosAkimbo/pseuds/WaldosAkimbo
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale are relaxing above the bookshop, gently teasing each other, when they come to an agreement to try something a little different together. Which is how Crowley ends up hanging from the ceiling.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 181
Collections: Oh Come All Ye Sinful! A Depraved Holiday Exchange 2019





	To Ribbons, To Pieces

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FlightlessAngelWings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlightlessAngelWings/gifts).



> For @FlightlessAngelWings here on Ao3. I was so glad to get the prompt: Smut, Bottom Crowley/Dom Aziraphale with overstimulation. Maybe toys or something.
> 
> I was so glad to do something with overstimulation this time!! I hope you enjoy it!

As was customary for the time, they met in secret to relay information that pertained to their Arrangement. As far as they understood, it worked out quite smoothly and they got quite fond of meeting atop busses, and in art galleries, and at concerts to compare notes, and smile. So much that when it was no longer required to hide both their affection for one another or their meetings, they went about doing them anyways. And this time they held hands atop busses. They held hands in art galleries. Hell, they held hands at concerts, too. Habits hard won over 6000 years were equally hard broken. Although the motivations had shifted.

Crowley, he had noted inconsequentially one evening, _wanted_ to be broken.

He never said as such, but there was inference and subtext and Aziraphale was quite adept at reading both when it was necessary. Or not even necessary, but fun.

Oh, he liked fun. He liked it as much as he liked pears and Chopin.

There had been drinking and flopping on couches and relaxing near fireplaces that burned too hot, tempered against the warmth by the scaly fellow who had taken semi-permanent residence in his lap. Crowley wasn’t even a serpent then, it was just something in his aura that was always reminiscent. And, when Aziraphale leaned over and pecked his nose, how Crowley’s eyes popped open in delighted surprise, so big and gold and beautiful.

Aziraphale carded his fingers through the blossom of wavy red curls that were starting to come in, long enough that they could almost be ringlets. Crowley luxuriated in the sensation, his sinews and ligaments stretched out like warm putty, his bones settling in the soup of contentment that was his body.

“Do you like that?” Aziraphale asked softly, knowing the answer already. Crowley mumbled out half-formed sounds, his tongue pressed firmly to the roof of his mouth and preventing proper words from forming. Aziraphale tempted him further by tracing down his neck and into his half-buttoned shirt, his perfectly plump fingers playing in Crowley’s sparse chest hair. “And do you like that?”

It must be very good if Crowley didn’t even bother with the usual combustion of consonants and simply moaned towards Aziraphale’s belly, which he was using as a pillow. His eyes were closed, his jacket tossed onto the coat rack with daring abandon, his tie undone and laying in rakish ribbons against his delicious collarbones. Aziraphale might have been feeling the wine to attribute all adjectives to the demon. He also might not mind it.

A little further down, Aziraphale caught the bud of one of Crowley’s nipples and dragged his manicured nail across the sensitive skin. His languid demon hiccupped and grabbed his wrist.

“Oh?”

“Oh,” Crowley answered, smoothing his hand out and rubbing up and down Aziraphale’s arm, which was only mussing up his long-sleeve shirt. Neither of them enjoyed the texture as much and Crowley muddled about until he got the shirtsleeve unbuttoned, rolling it up three times so it would stay fixed above Aziraphale’s forearm. “Give us the other one,” he muttered, like he was preforming some great magical task and Aziraphale switched his hands, so that Crowley could perform the act twice. It had a wonderful effect on both. Crowley could freely skate his fingers up Aziraphale’s forearm and even lift his head enough to kiss the delicate skin of his wrist, and Aziraphale was no longer impeded by pressed cotton to feel Crowley’s touch completely.

 _He_ could be undone with such simple touches, but that was not the point.

“You’re lovely,” Aziraphale said, playing again with Crowley’s hair. The demon wrinkled his nose and tsked, fighting to accept affectionate praise. “You are. You’re gorgeous, my dear. And soft. And so kind.”

“Don’t,” Crowley muttered, withering into himself to stave off an embarrassing blush. “I’m not. I’m not—”

“ _Nice_ ,” Aziraphale supplied and curled down to kiss the top of Crowley’s forehead. There was a grumbling rumble up through Crowley’s chest, a dissatisfied purr that had replaced the contented want from earlier. “You are. You must know this.”

“I don’t,” Crowley answered, turning his face away from Aziraphale’s tummy. He would have gotten up, except the effort of such movement was not worth it and he was still drunk at the moment that it felt better to pout so close to his affectionate partner. “I know a great deal of things, Angel, but that one is rightly…surely…it’s not…you know…. _That_.”

“Evidence suggests otherwise.”

“Oh, shut it.”

“Alright.” And Aizraphale began to close up Crowley’s shirt, taking care with each button and each crease of the fabric. Crowley began to pout more, squirming beneath him.

“Hey!”

“Oh, I’m afraid you’ve already said,” Azirphale answered, looking down his nose and fighting to keep his smile in check as he finished buttoning Crowley up. “Closed. Shut. Tip top.”

“Nnnnnnn,” Crowley answered and bucked his hips up until the natural wave of his body bounced his chest and he was sitting up fully. He turned, draping himself along Aziraphale’s right side, breathing a soft, sluggish sound into his neck. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?”

“You were playing with me,” Crowley continued, his voice dragging out with an anguished desire.

“I simply did what you told me to do.”

And, to Aziraphale’s sudden surprise, Crowley nodded and threaded their hands together in Aziraphale’s lap.

“Ssssss’ppose you did,” Crowley said softly, almost to himself.

He played with their fingers, rubbing the lines of Aziraphale’s digits with his thumb. It was more a seeking touch than simple sensory pleasure, an unasked question that Crowley had yet to figure out how to place into actual words. It was clear something was bothering him when Crowley’s eyebrows began to pinch together, niggling away at something that was beyond their current affectionate activities.

Aziraphale also understood how forlorn his poor demon could become when he thought he was rejected, which was not supposed to be the case. He was never to be rejected by Aziraphale. Not anymore. Not ever again, here on their own side. So, he flipped their grip and trapped Crowley’s fingers in his hands, gently crushing his wrists together in one hand so he was free to pet and pamper Crowley’s cheek.

Crowley gasped, just beginning to test how hard he had to work to get out of Azirpahale’s grip without actually making a break for it. Aziraphale made certain he didn’t feel trapped, but when Crowley looked a little disappointed, he pressed Crowley’s wrists to his chest and pinned them more firmly. His demon gasped again, the color of his cheeks darker and happier than before.

“You like telling me what to do,” Aziraphale reasoned and watched Crowley slowly dip and nod his head in a syrupy bob. “And, I do believe you like it when I take control. When we have attempted to, as one might say, ‘make an effort.’” Crowley hummed and dropped his head to Aziraphale’s shoulder, like he was too embarrassed to agree to the fact. “So, if we were to do something beyond our previous experiments, would you prefer me to take control and, uh, listen?”

“Mnnh,” Crowley answered sluggishly, shifting his face a bit awkwardly until he kissed Aziraphale’s jaw. Aziraphale warmed at the touch.

“There’s a good lad,” Aziraphale answered, but Crowley huffed and moaned unhappily. The angel tittered and reconsidered. “Have you been bad, Crowley?” he tried again. “Have you been _naughty_?”

It was all well and good that Crowley had his face pressed up against Aziraphale’s neck, because he was too embarrassed to deign a response. The only response being that he _enjoyed_ the terrible attempt at dirty talk. It was silly, and it was wonderful, and Crowley twitched his hips up to finally make himself flush to Aziraphale’s soft corporation. Aziraphale hummed in quiet consideration. Soon enough, there was a little golden chime, soft and sweet that manifested as a red silk rope encircling Crowley’s wrist in a very neat figure-8 knot. The end of it splashed out across Aziraphale’s lap and he took it up, wrapping it around his own fingers thrice before it was Crowley’s wrists that were flush with Aziraphale’s knuckles.

“Ah, there we are,” Aziraphale said, sitting back and tracing strong but gentle fingers beneath Crowley’s chin and forcing him to look up, at the very least with his face, since he was doing a very good job of avoiding eye contact. It seemed a long time for him to get around to an _actual_ blink. “Since you’ve been naughty, you _fiend_ ,” Aziraphale started, and Crowley bit his lip, so Aziraphale switched his vernacular. “You _scoundrel_.” Crowley tilted his head the other way. “You… _bad_ demon,” Aziraphale rumbled.

“Don’t remind me,” Crowley muttered with a little sleepy smile.

“Was ‘fiend’ alright?”

“It was,” Crowley hissed, leaning harder on Aziraphale’s fingers and going in for a quick blind kiss. “Get on with it.”

“Ask nicely,” Aziraphale reminded him, keeping his lips just out of reach, which caused Crowley to open his eyes and pout at him with the full force of those beautiful golden eyes of his. “You can do it.”

Crowley fidgeted a little, glancing down at his wrists, and tested the strength of Aziraphale’s miraculous binds. He could easily slip them with his own demonic powers, but he just settled back more firmly against the couch and dropped his hands to his lap. He began to press back against his trousers, and Aziraphale tugged on the tail of red rope he had to keep Crowley from touching himself, even if it was little more than mashing.

“Ask me nicely,” Aziraphale said more firmly, and tugged again so that Crowley almost fell forwards. It surprised the demon enough that he looked in awe and licked a thin stripe across his bottom lip.

“ _Pleasssse_ ,” he answered softly. “Please get on with it, Angel.”

“Right.”

Aziraphale did finally kiss Crowley’s cheek and stood, quickly wrapping the tail of the rope down and back up, so Crowley’s hands were pinned just below his crotch. Aziraphale hooked the rope around him quickly and had him in a neat little cross-pattern, legs clamped together, wrists bound, hands uselessly stretching towards his knees. Crowley’s mouth went open again, possibly to protest, but mostly in the shock that Aziraphale moved both quickly and efficiently and had him trussed up on the couch.

“Now, I need to do a little bit of reading, but I still say you’ve been perfectly wicked, _fiend_ ,” Aziraphale said with a little happy glint in his eye, “and I want you to stay put.”

“You…but… _Angel_.”

“Ah. There’s a gag in it for you if you can’t be quiet about it, too.”

Aziraphale’s hand was behind his back and that soft little chime again revealed he had definitely produced a gag on the fly. Crowley’s eyes roamed up from Aziraphale’s knees, his hidden hands behind his back, his wonderfully expansive chest and up to his smug little face with the twitch of a smile threatening to break out completely.

“Y’want me to be quiet,” Crowley reasoned slowly.

“Indeed.”

“I can do that.”

Aziraphale did smile, then, less cheeky and far too kind, like Crowley had done him a favor. He could only guess that Aziraphale was happy and relieved this gambit had so far payed off. But he came forward with a silk kerchief and was clearly about to wrap up Crowley’s mouth or eyes, and Crowley jerked his head back slightly. Aziraphale paused and looked at him.

“I won’t peak or say anything,” Crowley said softly.

His eyes were truly too earnest when he didn’t hide them behind his sunglasses, and Aziraphale could see a touch of fear and apprehension there that could not be masked by a smirk or a wink.

Aziraphale moved in closer, the kerchief dropping to Crowley’s shoulder, and he kissed him on the forehead.

“You’ll say ‘Michael’ when it gets to be too much?”

“Guh. ‘Michael? Really?’”

“Would take me _right_ out of the mood, too, don’t you think?”

Crowley laughed, relaxing again, finding a comfortable incline to lounge back while still tied up. He flipped his hair back off his forehead, shaking it out over the back of the couch.

“’Stop’ is as good a word as any.”

“It certainly is. I thought it might be fun for one of those ‘safe words’ the human’s like to write and talk about. But ‘stop’ is perfectly well and good, my dear. Or we could find another way….”

“Alright, alright,” Crowley said, his cheeks pink again. “Get on with it. Green light or whatever you like.”

“Mm, green light,” Aziraphale repeated. He patted Crowley’s cheek. He glanced down and let his fingers follow the line of his sight, tracing Crowley’s sinewy neck, the little divot there of his chest at the very edge of his shirt. He skipped his fingers over the fabric and down Crowley’s sternum, moving along to his stomach, flattening out as he made a move towards the zipper of his trousers. Crowley had closed his eyes again and though the ropes had him pinned together, he attempted to spread his legs anyways to give Aziraphale proper access. Instead, Aziraphale made gentle patterns with his fingertips on Crowley’s forearms and hands, until he saw rare goosebumps scatter about and a slight indent of snake scales begin to blossom up the inside of Crowley’s wrist. At the first sign of those scales, Aziraphale stood and left Crowley to shiver on the couch.

“Hey!”

“You promised to be quiet,” Aziraphale reminded him.

“Yeah, but…but!”

“Just a smidge of reading, dear boy. I’ll be back. And.” Aziraphale glanced over his shoulder, his eyebrow arching playfully. “You’ll be good for me.”

Crowley grumbled but settled back. He more than settled back, he flopped, tossing himself sideways and stretching his too-long-legs out over the armrest. It was a bit of a struggle, what with his thighs strapped together, but he wriggled across the thick woven blanket beneath him until he was comfortable.

It was not necessary for a demon to sleep, let alone nap, but the utter indulgence of letting himself drift off in the comfortable bonds Aziraphale had left him in was too easy. Crowley closed his eyes; the crackle of the bookshop’s fireplace touched him like a smoky finger along his cerebellum. He wished it was real, that it was Aziraphale’s hand tracing across his scalp, dragging a nail down to the nape of his neck and across his spine. He wished it would go lower and pry him open, seeking and discovering together.

Another flash of snake scales crawled across Crowley’s skin at the thought. He did not fall asleep, as he had hoped, and grumbled into the dark cave of his shoulder pressed against the couch. Maybe if he got up onto the ceiling for a bit. That put him out like hot milk to a human child, didn’t it? Hike his knee up towards his chest, pressed flat against the cement surface of his stark apartment? He needed to loosen the bonds around his knees, didn’t he. Just a little demonic miracle, hmm? Tug it loose right there near his wrist and he could—

There were firm hands hoisting him up into a sitting position before he realized who was moving him. Aziraphale did indeed drag his nails up Crowley’s scalp and scratched lightly on the retreat, making a funny little ripple across Crowley’s tongue that translated into an all-body shiver.

His skin was being a traitor. He could withstand raging fires and direct high-pressure blasts of water to the chest and bloody grave dirt and all that nonsense without so much as a hint of a scale pattern. And now? Now, Aziraphale, barely touching him, and it was making him break out all over. It went so far as to inspire an effort, now trapped in his too-tight leather trousers, straining for some release. And relief only came with ropes that had crisscrossed around his hips as though to exaggerate the embarrassment of having a bloody erection. From a _scalp_ massage!

“My dear, I feel it bereft to leave you all the way up here on your own, when you could be so much closer.”

“Cl…closer? Closer where? What?”

“Come along,” Aziraphale answered and hoisted Crowley up onto his shoulder as easy as he might lift a pillow.

It should be embarrassing, being man-handled. Being _angel-_ handled. And Crowley did his best to bluster and protest only because it seemed appropriate for him, but, to be sure, he was actually enjoying himself. And he shut up when Aziraphale’s hand, which had been holding firmly on the back of his upper thigh, seemed to bounce up from one of his steps and smacked Crowley’s ass firmly across the cheek. It landed. It stung. It stuck and squeezed, and Crowley realized it wasn’t an accident at all. He was lucky his face was draped over Aziraphale’s backside, where he was free to blush and bite his lip.

They creaked down the steps only because Aziraphale wanted them to creak down the steps. It was dark and brisk outside and while the lights were on, so far nobody had really come into the little bookshop. Aziraphale could flick his wrist to change the sign from “open” to “closed,” but he was stubbornly ignoring it while they twisted about the staircase and he carried his trussed-up Crowley to the back room. He even passed a window and patted Crowley’s rump when he caught the ghostly reflection.

“You’re out of your mind,” Crowley grumbled against Aziraphale’s back, grinning like a fool.

“No. But I have had a little to drink,” he reasoned. He nudged the door aside with his foot, a light warming to greet them.

There were plenty of little interesting rooms in the bookshop. Reading corners with chairs overflowing with copies that had been shelved and then decided they were done being shelved and seemed to leap out and multiply. There was the main desk that looked over at a nice nook where he kept a desk and an old wooden chair and a record player. There was the back room with another couch dressed in several heavy blankets because Crowley would not keep his feet off the furniture. And there was a collection of wine that moved about, hardly ever out in the open, and only when and where Aziraphale seemed to want or need it. Upstairs, where they had retired for a time, was another sitting room, another collection of valuable drinks, another multitude of books on shelves too dusty and old to hold them all. There was even a bed, for the rare occasion someone should need it. Not Aziraphale. Not for conventional means. And not often.

There was also…an addition to the back room. One that was not so easily noticed from Crowley’s _peculiar_ angle.

Aziraphale did not take Crowley to the couch. He stood in the center of the room and simply hoisted him up. There was that chime again, the gentle magic of a minor miracle as Crowley’s weight was evenly dispersed and he was put up with the help of those fine red ropes again, crisscrossing him in deliberate patterns. He found his hands in a noose-grip, suddenly and impossibly shifted from front to back so they were pinned, his shoulder blades accented by the new angle. His legs were roped as well, sturdy knots tripping up his claves and thighs and spreading them so he looked like he was kneeling, except he was up in the air, his stomach facing down to the floor, his face hanging to where Aziraphale reached up and ghosted his lips along the surprisingly tender flesh at the join of his jaw.

“There. Are you comfortable?”

To his surprise, the various knots cupped his weight in an even distribution and while the ropes would indeed indent his skin, he didn’t find it unbearable. He didn’t even find it annoying.

“Yesssss,” he hissed, pleasantly, his eyes closed as he swung slightly back and forth.

“Excellent. Now. My dear.” And the way Aziraphale held the words, both with reverence and a touch of jest, he tapped Crowley’s chest.

The room, while plenty warm with the fire still going and a natural heat that came with the angel’s presence and love, did drop a few degrees as Crowley swung naked from the ceiling. He gasped, jolting in the bonds, which only swung him forward enough to be caught in Aziraphale’s sturdy hands.

They were face to face then, eye to eye, Crowley staring directly into a smug little smile before Aziraphale purposely bumped their noses together.

“Still comfortable?”

Crowley nodded, but when Aziraphale opened his mouth in what looked like was either going to be a lecture or a protest or, hell, maybe just a sudden request to go get scones or something, Crowley nodded harder and said, “Yes, yes, it’s perfect.”

“Oh.” The tiny smile returned, warming, curling sharper just at the corners like the cat who had his milk and cream and mouse, too. “Good. Now, I see….” Aziraphale twisted his head a little and just by the little wriggle of his fingers, Crowley understood he was checking out between his legs and blushed accordingly, stuck up in a vulnerable position and all on clear display. “…You’ve made a lovely effort. Would you mind if I inspected it closer?”

“Please do,” Crowley whispered, attempting to make it carnal and smoky and only coming off as weak and wanting.

Those soft hands traced such delicate lines across his arms, finding new patterns between the ropes and across his hips, where a little pucker of black scales rose to the surface like fish for feeding time. Crowley bit his lip to stifle a moan as Aziraphale traced them, too, petting down just to the rise of one of his cheeks before he stood beneath him.

“Oh!”

“Shh, darling, the customers might hear you,” Aziraphale reminded him—bloody _liar_ , there weren’t any customers in the shop and if they were, they would be inspired to leave the moment they came in—as he pressed his lips to Crowley’s belly.

And then lower.

And then right at the end of a sparse trail of fine red hair, curling and tickling his nose.

And then lower.

At the hilt of his shaft, Aziraphale pressed such a soft, reverent kiss, holding onto the ropes around Crowley’s hips to keep him firmly in place. Crowley flexed his fingers until the very tips were white, a zap of heat curling around to meet the place where Aziraphale had just kissed him.

Given that he was practically laying on his stomach, his cock swung between his legs and while it was only just rising to attention, it had a good head start already with the help of gravity. He jerked a little when Aziraphale’s tongue lavished attention at the base and swept upwards to catch the tip in a gentle little kiss. He breathed out a moan as Aziraphale lapped at the slit, wrapped his lips around the head, and slowly began to slide down with an obscene sound of pleasure that made Crowley’s legs tremble in the bonds. His balls clenched upwards, which seemed like a reminder as they were suddenly cupped and caressed, massaged with the same agonizingly slow tempo as Aziraphale’s lips descending on him.

He wanted to fuck up into that mouth, that deceptively _sinful_ mouth, the glutton of food and pleasures and poetry and now him, too, now nearly fully swallowing him, moaning around Crowley’s cock like it was the sweetest dessert he had ever had the pleasure of indulging.

Except. When tongue was replaced with hand which was replaced with a silicone band, Crowley gasped hard enough to be a yelp, twitching once again from the new sensation. Aziraphale appeared before him, planting such a chaste kiss onto his lips as to be marked obscene just from the distance and control of it all.

“One for here,” Aziraphale said, his voice low and careful, his smile dazzling only in the eyes and maintained into a perfect little smug pout on his lips. He grabbed one of the anchor ropes for balance as he nudged something slick and cold against Crowley’s hole, the both of them opening their eyes wide. “One for here. If that’s alright with you.”

Crowley’s tongue felt too large for his mouth. He had to work it up and down again before he could form a proper answer, which was little more than a head bob. Aziraphale shook his head and Crowley finally answered, “yes. Yes, yes, yes, it’s alright, yesssss.”

“Good lad.”

Aziraphale kissed him again and pressed the small plug up into Crowley with a slow, careful twist, until it was snuggly in place, the flared end flush against him. It was a little bigger than he had initially thought, of course lubed up and gently worked in until he took it all with a greedy pull. Crowley shook, aching in diabolically warm places across his skin, threatening again to break out in scales, which he kept hidden beneath his skin on sheer willpower. He did not notice the remotes slipped into the binds of his ropes. He only noticed when Aziraphale steadied his swinging and asked, “Are you ready?”

“Ready?” he whispered, having a difficult time keeping his eyes open, focusing on the cock ring and the plug. “Ready…whuh?”

“Try not to shout.”

“I’m not shouting, Angel, I’m—”

Crowley gasped again, harder, a punch of air that hid the soft click from the remotes strapped to his leg. The vibrations made him jolt in the bonds and he tossed his head back, his mouth stretched open to moan only for Aziraphale to place his remarkably dry hand against his lips and hold him there like he was muffling him with a rag. He was thankful there was no secret gag or tie waiting in that hand.

“Ah. Quiet, dear. I wouldn’t want the customers to hear you,” Aziraphale said sweetly, his cheek pressed against Crowley’s, whispering sweetly in his ear.

There were no bloody customers. There were _no_ bloody _customers!_ It was late, it was dark, and Aziraphale pushed them all out. There was nobody. There weren’t window shoppers, neighbors pressed against the walls, anything.

But that wasn’t part of the game.

Crowley took a moment to control his breathing, swallowing his cries until they were muffled whimpers. He let his head drop to Aziraphale’s shoulder, barely reaching it from his angle up in the ropes, but the warm padding of the fabric was a delightful reprieve. Even with the cock ring he felt like he was leaking, and the trembling didn’t look like it would be stopping anytime soon.

“I must go check on something. If you need me, I ask you ring the bell.”

“Be…?” Crowley’s voice cracked on the vowel and he took another steadying breath before he got out, “Bell?”

“Bell. Yes. Right here. Silly boy.” Aziraphale held up a little brass bell on the end of a wooden handle, shaking it twice for a demonstration of its tinkling song. He stepped back, leaving Crowley to the ropes and air and the vibrations, nothing else to ground him, which made him feel momentarily dizzy until he settled into the firm embrace of Aziraphale’s ties and knots. Aziraphale took another step and set the bell down on the desk, several feet away. Crowley’s eyes, big and gold and blown out, seemed to glow as they focused on Aziraphale’s hands stroking the wooden handle. “I trust you can figure it out.”

And then he was out the door. He closed it without locking it, leaving Crowley in the comfortable silence, which was charged with his breathing, his panting, his pathetic little whimpers and the dual vibrators attached and inserted into his body.

He wasn’t certain how long he was up there. There was nowhere to rest his head and keeping it arched up was starting to twinge, despite the agonizing pleasure he was trapped in. He shivered, dropping his chin to his chest, and swayed so gently back and forth as though he were on a boat in an endlessly quiet sea. A sea of books at that, when he cracked his eyes open to see, which he did not do often. Instead, he kept them closed, and imagined Aziraphale holding the plug inside him or pinching his arms where the ropes were tightest, or paying attention to his painfully stiff erection, telling him to be good for him.

Anyone else, never. No. He couldn’t.

But for him….

Crowley was panting to the floor when Aziraphale returned, setting a large tome onto the table directly next to the bell. He moved silently but cleared his throat before he approached so he wouldn’t startle the demon out of his beautiful stupor. His hands were again so dry and gentle on Crowley’s sweat-damp skin, sliding across the spaces left between the ropes. He said nothing as he stroked Crowley’s cock, holding the ropes still when Crowley keened quietly, softer even when Aziraphale pet his cheek as a reminder to be quiet. Aziraphale smiled and kissed his cheek then and whispered, “Good lad. Here you are.”

The fingers working up and down his shaft suddenly evaporated, the cock ring disappearing with it. Crowley bucked to chase the feeling only for Aziraphale to fist him and pull out his first orgasm, which shot out with a violent spasm through his body. Aziraphale once again cupped Crowley’s head to his shoulder, something to rest against and muffle his cry in the fabric as he milked Crowley’s effort, his fingers firm and attentive.

When he was sure he was entirely spent, Aziraphale massaging Crowley despite his early sounds of overstimulated protest, he kissed Crowley’s cheek again.

“How was that? Was that nice?” He didn’t wait for Crowley to answer, simply replacing the ring in an instant and turning on the vibrator almost immediately.

Crowley jolted again. He thought just the one, surely, and let himself be pulled down for a quick shower and that was that. But Aziraphale didn’t loosen the ties nor let go of his cock head, thumbing purposefully over the messy end. In fact, he bent down and licked it, long and greedy stripes to clean him up. He hummed when Crowley got too loud and popped off with an obscenely wet sound to remind him of the customers, the bloody customers, the fucking nosy imaginary fuck off customers, and that the bell was ready for him.

And he left.

There was a timing to it, surely, though Crowley couldn’t possibly count it out in his head, which was starting to swim and sink and turn to a feverish mush. Aziraphale would leave, spend some time in the shop, likely reshelving books or what have you. Then he would return some twenty or thirty minutes later, check up on Crowley, let him rest his head and remove the ring and pull another orgasm out of him. Each one seemed as desperate and as remarkably sharp as the last and when he swung in the ropes and looked down, he could see his mess on the floor, staining the wood grain. They’d need a proper cleaning. Just the sight of it, drying, curling in the fireplace heat, made Crowley moan again. Too obscene for his angel, surely. And yet, the evidence stayed like a reminder of the past agonizingly sweet hours.

By the fifth one, there was a stain on Aziraphale’s shirt to match. A passing thought that it might be drool or something, until Aziraphale thumbed away the tear streaks down Crowley’s cheeks. He kissed the red skin there, lingering a moment, nuzzling his nose in, and was about to travel down to lick him again and replace the ring. He got so far as dragging his fingers down the shaft when Crowley tossed his head back and, with a grunt, finally tipped the bell over.

Aziraphale stopped immediately. He spared a glance over his shoulder, just to be certain, and let go of Crowley’s sore cock, immediately turning off both sets of vibrators. Crowley was surprised at the tender relief of it, sobbing harder, like something had been restricting his lungs.

Those soft….

Those soft perfect hands.

Aziraphale put one flat on Crowley’s stomach, not to tease or play with him again but to hold him steady as he slowly removed the plug. He only twisted it a little, an incidental gesture, and once it was removed it disappeared to his sink upstairs to be washed and put away.

And then he was pulling Crowley down. The slack almost hurt, his pinned limbs aching from the release of freedom, blood returning to the now red streaks of skin lacing across him. Crowley sobbed again at the stinging relief of it, settling so heavily into Aziraphale’s arms. He seemed weightless, unmoored in his own mind, escaping the overwhelming delights of having a body and what that entailed, even an occult one at that.

Aziraphale carried Crowley over to an armchair with a soft tartan blanket draped over the back of it. They sat together, Crowley a boneless mess, panting wetly into Aziraphale’s neck. Aziraphale grinned and kissed his cheeks, his eyelids, smoothing his hands over the marks on his skin, rubbing feeling back into his hands and fingertips. He trailed lower, down his ribs, the painfully sensitive nipples that made Crowley jolt and grip the armrest but offer no harsher protest. And then his stomach, the natural wrinkles and lines of his bones. He followed to his inner thigh, gently guiding his legs to spread. Crowley’s breathing hitched and hiccupped. He pressed his face into the sanctuary of Aziraphale’s neck, closing his eyes to enjoy the cinnamon-bright scent of him.

He was only distantly aware of the sound of zipper teeth, letting Aziraphale shift him where he needed, and he sank back onto the angel with a pleasing sigh. He was already so open from before that there was little resistance. Aziraphale buried his own needs until he was flush with Crowley. They moved, together, Aziraphale hugging him around the middle and keeping him from spilling out of his skin and into a sea-salt mess on the floor.

When Aziraphale finally gave him those needy gasps, his grip just a little firmer on his torso, Crowley did his best to clench down and drew out a quiet, happy orgasm from his angel. They rocked together. Aziraphale’s face was tight, like he was puzzling over a contentious article, and then the tension melted out of him and they both relaxed back into the chair.

Aziraphale, still panting, went to reach and fist Crowley’s cock, to give him a final release after he had just had his first, but Crowley simply grabbed his wrist to stop him. He didn’t need to say anything. A good thing, because he was certain he had forgotten how to form words at this point, his voice completely wicked away when Aziraphale pulled out of him and his seed spilled freely out of Crowley, staining Aziraphale’s soft thighs.

“Darling,” Aziraphale whispered after a time. A time, who knows how long. A time. Time meant nothing to him anymore, after _that_. After _everything_. Crowley tried to lift his head in response, but he was so comfortably trapped in Aziraphale’s strong arms, in the delicate sensation of being petted and held. “You’re still crying.”

He was. He didn’t even feel it. It felt so naturally wonderful, peaceful, and he nodded weakly, trying to twist about to curl into Aziraphale’s arms. Aziraphale just cuddled him up tighter.

“Was it too much?”

No. No, it was perfect. He wanted to convey as such and simply pet Aziraphale’s hand, managing a soft hum, and interlocked their fingers. At some point, yes, he would speak his words and he would share his praise at Aziraphale’s wonderful torture, but he just closed his eyes and sank into the familiar, into the safety, into the love of his angel.

Aziraphale kissed him again.

Aziraphale could always kiss him again. Azirphale should kiss him atop busses and in art galleries, and at concerts and in book shops and over cakes and when making love and when breaking him apart and until forever. And smile. They should definitely smile.


End file.
